


Snow in the Desert

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: 31 Days of Ineffables [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: His first Christmas away from Warlock, Crowley misses him so much, he makes it snow in the desert.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 31 Days of Ineffables [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560190
Comments: 13
Kudos: 124





	Snow in the Desert

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt 'snow'. Includes a little tidbit at the end that I found on the Good Omens character wiki.

“Is it …? Is it really?”

“If it is, it’s really odd …”

“It can’t be …”

“It … it is! It’s snowing!”

“What? _How_?”

“I … I don’t know.” Mrs. Dowling turns to her husband, affecting an expression of surprise but careful not to furrow her brow because wrinkles. “But it’s definitely snowing.”

“It can’t be.” Mr. Dowling rises from the breakfast table and shuffles to the window, staring up at the clear blue sky overhead, completely cloudless – which makes the larger than normal snowflakes falling from it certifiably bizarre. “Well I’ll be …”

“Snow day! Snow day! Snow day! Snow day!” Warlock chants, grabbing his jacket off the hook and running for the door.

“Warlock! Darling! A few flakes does not a snow day make!” Mrs. Dowling calls after him, giggling to herself over her clever, albeit unintentional, rhyme. But the moment Warlock opens the front door, the largest mound of snow Mrs. Dowling has ever seen falls atop her son’s head, burying him head to toe.

“Warlock!” she screams, certain her son has been squashed like a roach; that she’ll dig him up and find a flat, frozen Warlock pancake. “Talk to me, sweetie! Tell me you’re okay!”

His father rushes forward to rescue him (after sensibly putting on thick gloves and a wool coat) when, from within the mound, the chant continues – muffled but strong. “Snow day! Snow day! Snow day!” Warlock bursts out of the mound, covered in white but somehow not soaked to the skin, and races for the yard.

What had started off as simple white flurries stick to the ground and clump together with record speed even though the sky above them remains clear and the sun hot. All the children of their secluded, gated neighborhood have gathered with their various security details to build snowmen and start snowball fights as if heralded by an invisible but mutually agreed upon cue.

“How could this happen?” a parent asks.

“The weather service said nothing!” another offers.

“Who could have known?” a third pipes in.

“It’s a conspiracy, that’s what!” a fourth declares. “The liberal media is hiding this from us!”

“Not that I agree with any of your nonsense,” a fifth sniffs as they hop from website to website on their phone – CNN, NBC, ABC, The New York Times, “but I will say it is rather odd that no one’s reporting on this.”

“This valley hasn’t seen snow in close to two decades. Did you know that, darling?” Aziraphale says after a series of deep, concerned sighs. Beside him, both hidden beneath the branches of a lush willow tree, Crowley stands still as stone.

“Hmph,” he returns, his attention fully captured by the beaming boy with straight black hair plowing down snowmen left and right as if on some sort of vendetta. He grins slightly when Warlock clambers to the roof of his house and fearlessly leaps off into his mother’s begonias, landing remarkably safe regardless of the fact that the snow is piled shallow beneath the eaves that shelter her flowers.

“The news will be here soon, dearest, don’t you figure?”

His smile slips and Crowley grunts. “Ngk …”

“Crowley? Crowley, are you listening to me?”

“What, Aziraphale!? What!? What is it?”

Aziraphale looks at his miserable demon and sighs. “I know how you feel, but you can’t go around messing with the weather!”

“Why not?”

“You’ll disrupt ecosystems, confuse wildlife, _endanger the humans_ …”

“They moved him to California, angel,” Crowley mumbles in his defense.

“ _Adam_ moved him to California because he thought he’d like it here. And he was right. Warlock _does_ like it here. He has friends here.”

“There’s no snow in California.”

 _‘It barely snows in England,’_ Aziraphale could remind him, but that would just be cruel. He places a comforting hand on the crook of his demon’s elbow, but Crowley keeps his arms folded tight across his chest. “Not here in San Diego, no ...”

“It’s almost Christmas.”

“That it is.”

“And Christmas requires snow.” 

“Does it now?”

“Yes, it does. It’s one of the rules.”

“Whose rules?”

“ _My_ rules.”

“I see. Well why didn’t you miracle him and his family to Big Bear? Or Mammoth Mountain? Some place close by that already has snow?”

Crowley’s lips part but only just, whatever objection he had overruled before it leaves his mouth. “Meh. This was easier.”

“You didn’t think of that before, did you?” Aziraphale teases, unable to help himself.

“Look, if you’re so against this, why aren’t you stopping me? You have the power to reverse it.”

“True. But I love you.” Aziraphale slides his arm through the rigidity of Crowley’s posture and hugs him. He doesn’t force himself on him, simply lends him quiet assurance. Aziraphale could argue the ramifications of making it snow in the desert for days, but it wouldn’t change the fact that, as improbable as it seems, Crowley misses Warlock. After years of grumping and complaining that being a nanny is dull work for a demon and a thankless job in general, he feels a connection to this boy. He can’t be there for Warlock and, heartbreakingly enough, it seems Warlock has forgotten him, which is probably for the best anyway. So Crowley traveled thousands of miles to ensure one little boy (a boy who died because of him but was brought back when Adam changed reality) has a white Christmas. What’s the harm in that really? Aziraphale knows angels who do less over more important matters. And if there are any negative repercussions ecologically, which he doubts there will be, he can fix them in a snap. “And you’re not wrong. Christmas requires snow. So I’ll let it slide this once.”

Crowley watches Warlock nail a guard in the face with a huge, tightly-packed ball of snow and chuckles. He wants to say something to him. Aziraphale can feel it. Give Warlock an _Attaboy_! at the very least. But he can’t. He sighs, loosens his grip on his defenses, and hugs Aziraphale back. “That’s right generous of you.”


End file.
